Maitino One Shots

2 AM

Prompt: Maite comforting Camino after Felicia dies.

Author's Note: I've set this in the vintage universe, and ooof, this one was emotionally tough. Poor little Camino - so much sadness in her young life. But I also really enjoyed exploring writing in the second person. I hope I've done the scene justice.

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You only realize something is wrong when Camino falls to her knees.

The door is still half open from the young man delivering the telegram and you can see the piece of paper clenched between Camino's fingers as she crumples to the floor.

You're by her side before you've realized you've even moved. You sink down next to her, your hand on her back.

"Camino, what's happened, what's wrong?"

But she doesn't answer you, just remains motionless. She's not shaking, she's not crying, she is simply folded up on the floor, head bent, her hands pressed into the floor, fingernails dug into the wooden slats as if the floor might leave her if she doesn't hold onto it.

Repeating her name gets you nowhere, and when you try to touch her face, she flinches. You quickly withdraw your hand, and instead reach for the paper still clamped under her fingers. You carefully extract the telegram, Camino's hand moving marginally to allow it, and you smooth it out enough to read it.

The message is short. To the point. And yet it still takes you several tries before you understand. Because the words make no sense.

Felicia. Accident. Tuesday. Dead. Funeral.

You stare at the words and then at the woman bent over in front of you.

"Oh, my God," you whisper.

Your mouth is dry and you are at a total loss because you understand the magnitude of this, the permanence. And you look down at the slight form collapsed in front of you and you think that you might never again be able to convince her the world isn't a cruel place.

You know that almost nothing in the short time she's been on this earth has convinced her otherwise - losing her father, being physically violated, weighed down by her mother's rigid opinions of love and women's responsibilities, forced into a marriage she didn't want.

And now this.

You physically ache, and wish you could shield her in some way. But you know life doesn't work like that.

"Camino," you whisper, starting to reach out and then you remember her reaction a few minutes ago. You lean down, close to her ear.

"Camino, I'm going to put my around you, and we're going to stand up together, okay?"

You wait, unsure if you're even going to get a response, but then there is an almost imperceptible nod, one you wouldn't have seen if you weren't looking for it. But you know she's heard you, and you slip your arm around her waist and help her rise as gently as you can, leading her to the sofa. She is leaning against you, barely carrying any of her own weight, and you are acutely aware that she hardly weighs anything at all.

When you finally settle her on the sofa, she curls into a ball so small in the corner that you are reminded of a wounded animal trying not to betray the extent of its injury.

Oh, amor mío. I am so sorry.

You sit down next to her, hands aching to hold her, but knowing that touch might be too much for her right now.

"Camino," you say, as softly as you can. "I'm going to go downstairs, just for a few minutes, okay? I will be right back, I promise. But I need to do something." There is no reaction to your words. "Camino, look up at me. Show me that you've heard me."